Fixation
by INMH
Summary: Light Marlow/Iris. Movieverse. Vignette trilogy. 1805. A young woman with a fascination with blood. A vampire with a fascination with the woman.
1. Blood

Fixation

Rating: PG-13/T

Genre: Drama/Romance

Summary[30 Days of Night Light Marlow/Iris. Movieverse. Vignette trilogy. 1805. A young woman with a fascination with blood. A vampire with a fascination with the woman.

Author's Note: I love Marlow and Iris. I flip through the DVD and watch the scenes with them constantly. They're amazing. The novelization said that Iris was Marlow's student (and a new vampire), so I'm straying from the 'new vampire' part for this.

Disclaimer: I don't own 30 Days of Night. Steve Nile does.

* * *

Blood

* * *

Iris had always been fascinated by blood.

In her years as a child in Paris during the Reign of Terror, she had certainly seen a lot of it. It was a common sport for the citizens to go to the main square and watch the poor souls who'd been sentenced to death be beheaded.

Iris' view had been wiser than her years: How could the onlookers laugh and cheer at the cruelty when they could just as easily be next? Robespierre and the Revolution soldiers had started off only beheading the nobles of Louis Capet and Marie Antoinette's court, but eventually they started going after anyone and everyone that so much as thought a bad word towards Maximillien Robespierre.

Iris had been present during his execution as well- the "Green Ghoul" had been beheaded by the same device he'd been utilizing against the citizens of Paris for a year. The Reign of Terror had ended there, in 1794; she had been nine.

Eleven years later, she was a witch.

That's what the other girls at the factory (her four AM to noon job) and the other maids at the tavern (her one PM to eleven PM job) whispered about her. That was how it was done when they were serious- you spoke to a human, but you whispered about a witch. A witch might put a spell on you when she was angry.

They thought Iris was a witch because she liked the blood. She liked watching it run down her arm in a thick stream when the stupid factory girl who was supposed to make sure the equipment was secure forgot to cover the blades and they dug a ditch into Iris' hand.

Her fascination and awed silence while very other girl was screaming was unnerving. The injury hadn't been life-threatening or particularly ugly- there were much more grisly factory injuries on record- but young women in that day fainted at the sight of just about anything; especially copious amounts of blood. Particularly the country girls that hadn't witnessed the unspeakable horrors that the guillotine had displayed.

That had been the start of an addiction. Sometimes, when the urge overtook her, Iris stole away to the forest near the tavern and drew the metal line down her arm to the bring the blood. She always made sure she was alone; she was already rumored to be a witch because of her fascination with blood, and if people found out that she cut herself, they might have been scared enough to hang her.

Iris' dark eyes glittered in the shade of the trees. The moon was barely visible from beneath the thick foliage; just enough silvery light to see what she was doing. Iris turned her arm experimentally, watching the constant stream slide smoothly down the side of her arm in three thinner streaks. Her other hand held the knife and rag, the latter of which she intended to use as a tourniquet later. Iris sighed.

A twig broke.

Iris jumped, immediately slapping the rag over her arm and stuffing the knife into her pocket, feeling the metal puncture the cloth at the bottom. "Who's there?" She called sharply, voice stronger than she thought it would be. What was it? A wolf? A bandit? One of Napoleon's soldiers? She touched the handle of the knife with her free hand, grasping it firmly.

There was no response to her call.

She backed up slowly, eyes that had been misty a few seconds ago sharp and alert, scanning the trees. Nothing. Then, Iris turned and bolted back to the tavern like a spooked deer, clutching the rag to her arm all the way. She slammed the door shut behind her, and it echoed through the trees.

When she was gone, a tall, large figure stepped out from behind the trees, his obsidian eyes reflecting no light.


	2. Watch

Watch

* * *

Iris' fascination was with blood. Marlow's fascination was with her.

Marlow hadn't been attracted to a human in centuries- not since he had been one himself. The females in the pack were attractive, granted, but he'd never mated with any of them. For that, he was regarded as aloof by the rest of the group.

What was it that made that girl- an infant by vampire reckoning- so… So… _compelling_?

She was very beautiful for a human; long, black hair, mysterious dark eyes (not as dark as his own, of course), pale, unmarred skin and the types of curves that would make a priest tear off the white collar. And from what he'd seen of her behavior, she was not cut from the same naïve, catty cloth as some of the other human women in that area. She was intelligent and wise in the ways of the world- her eyes said that much.

It was probably the blood. He'd caught her on one of her earlier excursions into the woods a week or so beforehand. For a minute he had stalked her- the opportunity was just too unbelievably perfect- preparing to move in for the kill.

But then he'd seen her cut her arm- the shadowy mark already present suggested that this wasn't something new to her. He saw the sheer passion behind her eyes as she watched herself bleed and was entranced. Marlow had completely forgotten what he'd been intending to do only moments before, and watched curiously as her arm cried red tears. Most women fainted from the sight of blood (totally ridiculous), but this one seemed to enjoy it.

Intriguing, to say the least.

And so, Marlow remained close to the village, stalking the edge of the woods and peering into the candlelit rooms, watching for her. Eventually, he determined which room was hers. He saw her saying her nightly prayers, saw her undressing- he'd never been a pervert, even when he was human, but he couldn't look away. She really was a beauty- and that wasn't just his libido talking.

Marlow wanted to turn her.

He gave it some serious thought. Their numbers weren't especially low, but they weren't so high that a new member would be rejected on the grounds of increased competition. Not to mention, he didn't want it to be the cliché situation where one longs for something, then once they have it, it loses its luster. It was a common scenario when a vampire turned someone they were attracted to.

He learned more about her. Her name was Iris, and she had turned twenty in May. She had been born and raised in Paris, which at least partially explained the world-wise look in her eyes. Marlow didn't know all of the details, but he did know about the bloody revolution that had swept France then. Apparently, it had a profound effect on her psyche.

He considered that as he watched her cut herself one night. Such deep concentration on her lovely face… Marlow watched on intently. He took one step forward- and a twig snapped beneath his feet. Inwardly, he cursed as Iris jumped and whipped around. "Who's there?" She called boldly. Marlow slid completely behind the tree again, cursing his carelessness. There was a long silence. Then, he heard the distinct sound of her running back towards the tavern.

He sighed and stepped out from behind the tree again.

A fascination with blood… Something they both shared. He would turn her soon. It was only a matter of time.


	3. Midnight

Midnight

* * *

Iris was awakened by the screams.

The tavern was fairly isolated; down the road from the main village by about a kilometer or two. Close enough to make the journey in a day, far enough away not to hear anything from the village or vice-versa.

Like screaming, for instance.

Iris hadn't even bothered to remove her dress that evening. It had been a long day: she'd been fondled by three men, argued with the cook twice and was nearly puked on by a man that had had a few too many. After which, she'd been given the pleasant duty of throwing him outside. At the end of her shift, Iris had fallen into bed, idly fingering the pendant on the choker she wore around her neck.

Now she was wide awake.

Another scream echoed up the stairwell, and some thumping and crashing ensued. A cracking noise sounded- it had the distinct noise she associated with cracking wood- and glass smashing. Someone had broken a window. A voice shouted something shrilly, and Iris thought that it sounded like Lysette, one of the younger maids.

Slowly, Iris got to her feet and went to the door of her room- shared with Lysette and a few others- cracking it open and listening intently. There was nothing she could hear any clearer than when the door was shut. Treading lightly, she slid from the room and crept down the hall, moving to the railed balcony-like part of the hall that overlooked the bar.

What Iris saw then was ghastly.

Her friends, coworkers- they were dead. Their bodies were splayed across the floor and the tabletops and the bar… _Jesus_. Iris nearly breathed the whisper aloud, but her voice was caught in her throat. She still had hers- her fellow maids did not. Theirs had been torn out, along with the throats of several patrons. Their blood pooled about them, dark and arterial and in such great abundance that it formed one large ocean across the floor, the blood from the tables flowing like thin waterfalls.

And there were people drinking from it.

Iris felt her stomach flip, but she wasn't nauseous. She had seen more than enough blood and grisly scenes in her life that were just about equivalent to this. It was barbaric and cruel; the stuff of terrible nightmares that even the devil would have trouble cooking up. A lesser woman would have fainted; but Iris was certainly not a lesser woman.

There were six men and one woman. Their movement was odd- it was almost animalistic, though with an odd precision. Their hands were tensed, and their fingers ended in long, sharp, yellowed claws that had been long since stained with blood. They were as pale as the horse that death sat upon, dressed in black and covered in her comrades' bloods.

Iris was frozen in one place, one hand clutching the railing, half-hiding behind the part of the wall that ended before the overlook. As she stared, she spotted what seemed to be the largest man among them. He had short, gray-black hair and a massive frame- tall and large, muscular and maybe in his early forties. He stood with the posture of someone who was always in control, and even appeared to be when he wasn't. She had met men like that before. Iris took a deep breath.

The man froze, then turned sharply and jerked his head upwards.

His eyes locked onto Iris', and she sucked in another deep breath. He had Lucifer's eyes- two deep obsidian pools of darkness straight from the abyss, a small white dot reflecting from both, the only light in his eyes. His mouth opened slightly, revealing sharp, bloodstained teeth that could have put a shark to shame.

Iris released her breath- she'd held it for nearly a minute. His stare was truly soul-piercing. He approached the stairs, placing a hand on the railing. Iris didn't move, whether from fear or awe even she didn't know. He moved up one stair. She did nothing. One more step. Another. Another. Moved to the fifth step-

And suddenly, Iris found movement again. She turned and bolted down the hall, dashing to hers and the others' room and ran inside, slamming the door shut and throwing the bolt. Iris slowly backed up to the wall, breathing shallowly and shutting her eyes, leaning her head back to touch the wall.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Who were those people? They weren't rowdy soldiers from Napoleon's army, they weren't members of Robespierre's gang looking for some drunken revenge on some of the innocent civilians of the new regime, they weren't bandits, they probably weren't even _human!_ So who is God's name were they?

She had to stay calm. She wasn't like the other girls- she was strong or will and mind, and she could stand seeing the type of gore that was present downstairs. When no one else could, Iris could handle it. All she had to do was go out the window; it would be risky- if she hurt one of her legs, it would probably spell her death. But she had to try. She didn't feel that she was destined to die that night.

Iris opened her eyes…

…And felt her heart drop into her stomach.

It was him.

The man from the stairs.

How had he gotten in the room after she'd locked the door? It was a heavy metal bolt, not easily broken. And even then, how had he gotten to be only a few feet away from her without her hearing him? There was no hope for the window now- he would have ample time to stop her. All Iris could do was press harder against the wall and pray she'd sink through and die.

She closed her eyes and heard the man approach her in a slow, measured stride. Heard him breathing. Sensed him less than a foot away from her- they were almost touching. A cold hand brushed against her cheek, and Iris shivered. The man said something she could not understand- indeed, it was in a guttural language that she had never heard before. It sounded more like spitting than speech.

Iris opened her eyes. The man locked eyes with her again. "What?" Iris whispered. He repeated what he'd said again, carefully raising one yellowed nail to her face and gently tracing it down her cheek. "I don't…" She took a deep breath. "I don't understand." The man was silent for a moment, now examining her choker. Without warning, he turned his claw sharply and sliced the fabric, the choker and pendant falling to the floor.

He attempted the phrase in French(1). "_Non morte._ _No tu morte._" Iris' brow furrowed. What he'd said- he obviously didn't speak much French- was 'No death. No death for you.' To make it looser, it was 'I'm not going to kill you.' Her mind, fogged from their close proximity and the speed at which everything was happening, couldn't quite process what he meant. If he didn't plan on killing her, then what was he going to do?

Without warning, his arms slid around Iris' waist and pulled her against him with surprising gentleness. One arm remained around her, the other moved to her hair, calmly running down it. Iris was tense for a moment, wary at the contact (the term 'rape' ran through her mind), but then gradually, she relaxed, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder.

The man sighed.

Then sunk his teeth into her neck.

* * *

1: I speak Latin, not French. If I got this wrong, I'll correct it.


End file.
